


Five Senses

by my1alias



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bondage, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), M/M, No Dialogue, Other, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22189951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my1alias/pseuds/my1alias
Summary: After Crowley bothers Aziraphale one rainy morning, the angel has a creative way of keeping Crowley occupied.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 107





	Five Senses

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, Aziraphale is incredibly aware of Crowley at all times during this. Every time Crowley is about to panic, Aziraphale turns a page. If Crowley hadn't calmed down, he would have immediately terminated the scene. He will also do extensive aftercare.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta: my husband.

Five smells.

Crowley inhaled softly.

Petrichor. It had been raining heavily since that morning, and he hadn’t felt like weeding in the deluge. Instead, he had pestered his angel until Aziraphale had suggested his current activity. The pleasant smell of wet earth invaded his senses until he moved on to the next one.

Mint. That would be the mint tea that Aziraphale was drinking. One scoop of sugar, a splash of milk. It tickled his nose, making it tingle.

Dust. Not the icky dust of skin cells around the house – there was none of that in their cottage – but the dust of centuries that clung to the pages of the book Aziraphale was reading. Something from the 18th century, if he recalled correctly.

Flowers. The scent of slightly bruised flora wafted in through the open patio door. Crowley was proud of his garden – he had worked tirelessly to make their garden beautiful and functional.

Musk. Crowley shivered, scenting the air with his forked tongue as well as his nose. Aziraphale’s scent was stronger than even his own. Desire, sex, pleasure, all linked together to make a heady bouquet the went straight to Crowley’s hind brain. He felt himself spiraling and inhaled deeply…

Aziraphale turned a page of his book, drawing Crowley’s focus back in.

Four sounds.

The page turning counted as one, surely. Strong fingers belying their strength and delicately flipping a paper-thin page. A flicking sound, almost tearing, and over the page went, settling smoothly against its fellows on the opposite side. And then smooth brushing sounds, flattening it out, before silence once more. How Crowley wished to be that page.

Pattering of rain. The sound drummed against the roof of the pergola over the patio outside the door. With the door open, the sound could grow deafening if one concentrated hard enough. He jerked his thoughts away.

Creaking of the house. The little cottage they had bought in the South Downs was very old. They had updated it, fixed up the creaking floors and renovated the bathroom and kitchen, but the house still moaned and settled during adverse weather. Almost as if the cottage itself was as tired of the downpour as its inhabitants. Not that Crowley was complaining at the moment.

A subtle shift in movement. Crowley’s ears pricked up. Aziraphale had shifted in his chair. Perhaps he was not as unperturbed as he let on? Was he coming over? No. Crowley calmed the pattering of his heart and settled back into position. Not that he had moved an inch.

Three tastes.

He wiped his tongue around his mouth, studying the flavours.

Coffee. The residue of the coffee he had drunk that morning created a film of bitterness on his tongue. He grimaced internally.

Sugar. He had taken one bite of Aziraphale’s scone with raspberry jelly for breakfast. That must be where the sugary sweetness came from.

Aziraphale. The thickness of his angel stretching his lips wide, the salty-sweet-bitter creamy fluid that burst over his taste buds, the heavy ache in his jaw as he had tried to draw it out longer and longer and “oh, please just use me to keep your cock warm”…

He was falling again, desperate for touch, and he gasped as he inhaled deeply.

Aziraphale turned another page and Crowley grabbed onto that sound, anchoring him to reality. Where was he? Right.

Two touches.

Wind. It whispered over his bare body, cooling it and raising goosebumps on his overheated flesh. Tickling over the sparse hair on his chest, thighs, and lower belly. A breath over his groin, keeping his cock hard without any further stimulation.

Rope. Aziraphale had carefully wound the soft cotton rope around and around his forearms, leaving the six knots equally spaced in between his arms. One for each of the six thousand years they had been unable to touch each other. Proof that Crowley could and would wait any length of time for Aziraphale to touch him. The long end of the rope pulled his arms up, over his head, straight to the ceiling, where a miracled hook kept it taut. The tension was such that his knees barely touched the pillow underneath them, his shoulders taking most of his weight.

One sight.

Blackness. No matter which direction Crowley looked or squinted, the blindfold was perfectly secure.

He was secure in his angel’s hands.

No matter how long.

He could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been bouncing around my brain for a week now, and I finally said, okay, I need to get this down!
> 
> I mean, I really didn't mind seeing a naked Crowley hanging from the ceiling daily, but I really wanted it written, you know?
> 
> So while I was nursing my infant son to sleep this afternoon, and during his nap, I swiped this out on my phone.


End file.
